


For England, James

by chanderson



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: James is taken and tortured during a mission with Alec.It doesn’t go well.
Relationships: James Bond/Alec Trevelyan, James Bond/Q
Kudos: 45





	For England, James

**Author's Note:**

> This is very dark. Not happy at all, so if that isn't your thing please proceed with caution. 
> 
> Descriptions are graphic, more graphic than I normally write.
> 
> Mainly James/Alec but there is a little 00Q in there. 
> 
> Station A is the United States. 
> 
> I'm sorry for this lmao.

James awakens slowly to the sluggish realization that everything hurts, badly. It’s a pain deep-set in his marrow that seems to pulse in time with his rabbit-beating heart. He blinks once, twice, eyes dilating in the dim lighting of the room. 

It’s some type of cellar, he realizes instantly, with a grimy dirt floor and exposed brick walls. It smells damp and dank, the sickly-sweet smell of rot burning through his nostrils. His stomach turns and he swallows the need to vomit, just barely, as he involuntarily gags, body heaving.

A fresh swell of panic rises in his chest when he realizes that he can’t move. His arms and legs are chained to the spindly wooden chair beneath him. A thick rope is wrapped around his chest, just below his nipples. 

He is naked. And cold. His skin pimples and he shivers, his body going into shock. The sound of his teeth chattering is loud in the emptiness. 

James glances around the room again with this eyes. There is a small slit of a window near the ceiling, just wide enough for a man to slide his fist through but no bigger. The light outside is the eery blue light of dusk. 

He tries to think back, to remember _how_ he got here. All he can recall is faint flashes of a dimly lit bar, Alec beside him, the rattle of ice in Swarovski crystal glasses, honey-gold whiskey burning its way into his belly. The mission in Station A was supposed to be finished. The mark — a retired Russian-born, New York-bred lobbyist running a crime syndicate with its hands in the diamond trade in Africa — was dead. They had completed a job well done. M rang them to tell them so, told them to enjoy themselves. Q checked in, pleased to hear they hadn’t lost any equipment. James was looking forward to a nice night spent with Alec, just the two of them. He was waiting on Alec to get back from the bathroom before suggesting they go up to the room. Then everything went black. 

James blinks, wincing against the sharp pain in the back of his head. His stomach lurches again and he can’t help but be sick this time. He tries to lean away from himself, but it splatters on his bare thigh, slowly begins to run down his calf to join the congealed blood pooled on the floor. He hangs his head and gasps, itches to wipe away the strings of yellow-brown vomit now stuck in the stubble on his chin. 

Then the door slides open with a great groan, the sound of metal grinding loudly. A man walks in, heavy set with a slight limp. He’s holding a tire iron in one beefy, pale hand. He smiles to reveal a row of yellowed, crooked teeth. Like the mouth of a shark. He’s balding, his wispy salt-and-pepper hair slicked back with sweat. 

“Hello, Mr. Bond,” the man drawls in a slight Russian accent. “Good to see you awake again.” 

James curls his lips and stays silent. The Russian walks closer and tuts his disapproval as he sees the mess in James’ lap. “I see you’ve had a little accident.” He stalks closer, swinging the tire iron back and forth. “What a shame. No one likes a dirty boy.” 

“What do you want?” James bites out, his glacial eyes narrowed into a glare. The man laughs and grabs ahold of James’ short cropped hair and yanks his head back, exposing the expanse of his throat. 

“Just you, dear boy. Only you.” 

The man looms over James before leaning in to suck an angry, red mark into James’ neck. James stiffens but doesn’t make a sound. The musky scent of the man’s sweat is overwhelming. He releases James’ neck with one last bite and drops to his knees, one big hand cradling James’ shackled ankle. “If you try to kick me, I will kill you,” he threatens as he unclasps first James’ right leg, then the left. He flicks open a knife and cuts through the rope across James’ chest.

He grins at James and retrieves the tire iron, using it to nudge James’ flank. “Kneel.” 

James glares up at the man but clumsily slides out of the chair, falling unceremoniously to his knees. His legs prickle with pins and needles. 

The Russian reaches out to stroke James’ cheek with rough, calloused fingers. Then he’s tugging at the worn belt holding up his trousers, the clink of metal disgustingly obscene. 

James steels himself for what comes next. 

The Russian smacks James cheek with his cock before running it over James’ lips. When James doesn’t open his mouth, the man raises the tire iron threateningly. 

So James obliges, taking the man’s thick, short cock in his mouth and laving it with his tongue. He tries to breathe through it, fights the overwhelming urge to gag when the man thrusts his hips forward sharply. 

_For England_ , he reminds himself.

He ignores the snot gathering on his lip and the tears burning in his eyes as the man thrusts into his open mouth over and over until he spends himself suddenly, without warning, with a filthy grunt. James coughs violently when it happens, sputtering as the man’s seed runs down his chin. He coughs until he gags and vomits involuntarily. The Russian watches him impassively, then slams the tire iron into his side in response. 

James groans and crumples over, curling in on himself. 

The Russian leaves him like that, shivering in the fetal position, the scent of his own vomit and blood thick in his nose. 

He closes his eyes and thinks of Alec, the last time they were in Jamaica together. He remembers the way Alec looked bathed in the buttery sunlight. Then he thinks of Q: sweet, caring Q. He thinks of the times he limped into Q’s apartment after a mission whenever Alec was away. He thinks, tenderly, of the way Q let him stretch out on the couch, his head in Q’s lap. 

James drifts in and out of consciousness. 

The next time he comes to, it’s to the jarring sound of an explosion and the rapid prattle of gunfire. 

Then the door is thrown open and James screws his eyes shut against the light. 

The quick sound of footsteps in the dirt. Then a hand touching his shoulder. He recoils, until the hand begins combing through his hair. 

“James? James, it’s Alec. It’s ok I’ve got you.” 

The chains are gone from around his wrists, and he’s being nudged, gently, into a sitting position. He blinks slowly as Alec drapes a blanket over his quivering shoulders. 

“How’d you get away?” James voice cracks harshly and he swallows, tries to work some spit into his dry mouth. 

Alec smirks as he takes a handkerchief and wipes at the mess on James’ face. 

“I came out of the bathroom just as they knocked you out, so I just turned and ran. They fired a couple shots at me, nicked my arm. Q helped me trace you here. They were sloppy, waited too long to remove your chip, so we were able to get a bit of a head start.” 

James nods and attempts to stand, but instantly stumbles as his calves are shot with searing pain, cramping. He groans, and Alec reaches out to steady him. For a second he thinks he may get sick again, but the feeling passes. Alec notices and lays a cool hand on his forehead. “Sick?” 

“Yeah,” James breathes. 

“It’s ok. Can you walk?” 

“Think so.” Alec nods and slips an arm around James’ waist. 

“We’ll go together. Medical’s waiting outside.” 

They take a few clumsy steps together, James leaning heavily against Alec’s steady form. 

Alec leads him up a flight of rotting stairs, directing him where to step. “It’s some sort of old warehouse,” he explains without James asking. Once they reach the top of the stairs, James sways with dizziness and stops suddenly, leaning away from Alec to rest against the wall. He takes a few slow, measured breaths. Alec frowns. “Are you gonna be sick?”

James shakes his head slightly. 

“No, don’t think so. Just need a minute,” he says as he reorients himself. 

“Take your time.” 

Once he feels settled, James allows Alec to lead him out of the warehouse. It seems to be just past daybreak, the sky still a fading orange from sunrise. An MI6 helicopter is waiting a few yards away. A team from medical is standing outside the doors. 

James lets them poke and prod and clean him up without complaint for once. He’s lucky, they tell him, though he doesn’t feel it. Inside, everything still feels wrong. His stomach churns constantly with nausea. He feels dirty, the memory of the man’s cock on his tongue enough to make him shudder. They give him clothes to change into. He yearns for a shower. 

Alec is quiet as they climb into the helicopter. 

James dozes lightly for most of the ride to the airport. Alec’s hand sits curled protectively over his thigh.

They’re deposited on the tarmac, a private jet waiting for them. Alec rests a hand against the small of James’ back as they walk to the plane. Normally it would irk James, the domesticity of it. Today, he lets it slide. 

He still feels jumbled up. His stomach and bowels twist with cramps. He vomits on the tarmac.

Alec is worried. James can tell from the way Alec helps him up the stairs. He fusses over James, helping him sit, asking if he needs anything. 

“A whiskey might help,” James quips as he settles into his seat. Alec frowns but orders them each a drink anyway. The climate-controlled plane is cool but not too cold. James still shivers. 

He downs the whiskey in one go. It sloshes in his empty stomach, warms him up a little. 

Alec checks in with M while James sleeps. They’ve got a long flight ahead of them. 

James dreams in jarring, flashes of nightmares. They startle him awake, send his heart hammering out of his chest. Alec is asleep peacefully beside him. James shifts in his seat, orders another whiskey neat and sips on it to pass the time. 

When the plane finally lands in London, James is still wide awake. He reaches over and carefully shakes Alec. The man blinks slowly and smiles radiantly. 

“I’m so happy you’re ok.” He says it so tenderly it makes James’ skin prickle with discomfort. They are close, best friends. They fuck to relieve tension, to exorcise the demons. But they do not talk about it. They don’t whisper sweet nothings to each other at night. 

James just smiles slightly in response and stands unsteadily, wincing. 

“I’m ok,” he says when Alec frowns. “Really. Just a little sore.” 

“I was so worried about you,” Alec says, so softly James barely hears him, as they exit the plane. Rain is lightly misting, and James turns his face up to feel it on his skin. 

“I’m ok,” he says again. “Really. You don’t have to worry. I’d just like to get home and take a shower.” 

Alec doesn’t even suggest he go in to MI6 for a debrief, and for that James feels a wave of appreciation. 

They pile into a car MI6 sent for them, and Alec gives James’ address. 

Home is so close he can almost taste it. 

\---

The shower pounds into James’ back and he slides down to sit on the floor, the tile cool against his bare skin. Alec had asked to join him, but James had just shrugged and said he’d like to be alone. 

Now he’s regretting it a little with nothing to distract him from his thoughts, or the fresh marks and scars on his skin that still sting under the water. 

He can still remember the feel of the man’s cock on his tongue, tasting bitter and sour. James shudders and reaches up to twist the water off. He feels hollow inside, like someone went inside and scooped everything out.

Alec is already in bed when James walks into the bedroom. He's sitting up in bed, reading a thick, worn novel. James slides under the covers, his back to Alec. 

He feels rather than sees Alec put his book down and settle into bed, one hand coming to rest tentatively on James’ hip. 

“James…” he trails off. “I was so worried about you,” he says for the second time that day. His voice is thick, and James feels a little embarrassed for him. They don’t do this, not usually. If one of them comes back battered from a mission, they simply sweep it under the rug and have a good shag. They don’t talk about it. Ever. 

“I’m ok now,” James says gruffly. “It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“I wish you would,” Alec whispers, and James scoffs, unkind. 

“When have we ever talked about it? We’re killing machines, Alec. It’s what we do. It’s fine. I’m over it. It’s not like I haven’t been tortured before.”

Alec doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around James’ waist and squeezes. 

And when James wakes up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, Alec doesn’t say anything. He just holds James a little tighter. 

**Author's Note:**

> Poor James. 
> 
> I've been reading Ian Flemming's novels and they're very dark, so I kind of wanted to channel that. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! I love comments!
> 
> Happy quarantine, y'all.


End file.
